Pop Go the Weasels
by Le Me
Summary: When headmistress McGonagall decides a big Quidditch tournament is just what Hogwarts needs after the fall of Voldemort, the kiddies take a back seat, and the old crew is invited back to partake in the contest. However, old habits die hard, and soon the competition is fraught with sabotage. But no amount of foul play would ever deter Captains Wood and Flint. The game is on.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** Own anything, I do not.

A/N: **No slash, no pairings**, all places, and products sold at WWW, are canon.

**AU**; this story takes place post-DH in August - September 1998 just before the start of a new term at Hogwarts. You will be pleased to know that Gred did _not _get served by a flimsy castle wall in DH but rather was fixed up good as new by the good folk of St Mungos; J.K. is obviously telling porkie pies or simply trolling. Rest assured no-one under the name Weasley will get took out by a brick and brushed under the carpet whilst I'm about – No, not in my house.

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><p><strong>Chapter 1<strong>

Chaos. Pure, unbridled chaos would be the only way to describe the scene currently raging around the mortified duo. The Great Hall of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry had certainly seen better days as forgotten feast, forks and fists found their way into the now dirtied and dismal robes of the two groups of old rivals, as individuals pulled, punched and ploughed through as many opposing bodies as they could in hopes that it would get some sort of point across better than words would. Fred and George Weasley had been present at many of the castle's food fights, usually being the ones to start them in the first place. However this time, the frenzy flared without them as they demanded they be released from the strong arms preventing them throwing their two cents into the fray – preferably in the face of one Marcus Flint, whose nose was currently playing host to the right index finger of Oliver Wood as he scolded and berated the chaser without abandon.

Now, Slytherins and Gryffindors have never really seen eye to eye, no matter which way you slice it. Even in this day and age, the lions and snakes were still walking on egg shells with one another even though one would think that after the fall of Lord Voldemort and revival of the school, all the past differences of the two houses would ebb away as order and peace was restored for the first time in decades, maybe even centuries.

In short, no. Even though many would argue that bygones were now bygones with the two adversaries, there was still one instance, one time in which the two could suddenly turn on each other as quick as the changing wind, like a wild animal suddenly coming to its senses after spending too long in the presence of man – Quidditch. Yes, the wizarding world's most silliest and loved sport is, not only a hefty and reliable source of broomstick double entendres that have existed since the time of Merlin, but also a major catalyst in causing physical disagreements between witches and wizards. If the physical disagreement currently ablaze in the Great Hall was anything to go by, the 'Department of Magical Games and Sports' should maybe consider anger management meetings as a compulsory activity for its players.

"I WILL NOT HAVE IT, I TELL YOU, I WILL NOT HAVE THE START OF A NEW YEAR IN THIS SCHOOL BESMIRCHED BY VIOLENCE. ESPECIALLY _NOT_ THIS ONE, AFTER WHAT WE HAVE ALL BEEN THROUGH THESE PAST MONTHS."

Most of the students in the room, now deathly quiet after her outburst, could argue that Headmistress McGonagall was audible enough without the aid of a _Sonoros_ charm, but none would dare to tell her.

She sighed and dropped the charm. "Can't we all just have a nice, friendly Quidditch tournament without all this?" she said, gesturing to the remains of the thorough rough-housing. "Apparently not. All Quidditch players will report to my office _immediately_ and prefects will take the rest of their houses to their dormitories. Professor Snape if you would collect the remnants of the pumpkin juice and the _potion_ that the twins have been slipped and let me and poppy know what we're dealing with I'd be much obliged. Hagrid, as you seem to have them under control, you will escort Messrs Weasley to the hospital wing."

The twins positively hissed at not being allowed a go at the Slytherins, especially after they had been utterly degraded in front of everyone they'd ever known at the school. After the…_incident_, it was also indeed Hagrid who had grabbed them, firmly restraining them against his large bulk; it was just as well, at 6ft 3 and somewhere in the realm of 180 lbs each they weren't easily held back when tempers went out the window. Well versed in dealing with volatile animals and creatures, it could be said that Hagrid was the perfect candidate to deal with the foaming brothers.

"Righ' yer are, Professor McGonagall. Come on then you two," said the half giant, carrying the twins out of the Great Hall and down the empty corridor.

Still very much pissed off, Fred and George wiggled in frustration in the strong grip. All they could think about as the gamekeeper carted them off towards Madam Pomfrey, was how on Earth they allowed themselves to be placed in this situation, to be hoodwinked by _Marcus Flint_ of all people! – The bloody troll!

Their whiskers twitched in the dusty air, and their short, red-furred tails swished in annoyance as they swayed back and forth with every one of Hagrid's huge strides, from the thick bundles of fat and skin on the backs of their necks that the half giant was using to carry them away from the quieting Hall. The snakes were going to pay, and by Merlin it was going to be the physical disagreement of the age when the time came, thought the duo as they were manhandled into the long, white sterile wing. And to think, just two weeks prior, the only thing the twins had had to worry about was the rent coming out, what they were going to have for dinner that night, and a child's bad reaction to one of their products…

_14 days ago_

At last, Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes of 93 Diagon Alley was finally allowed to wind down for the evening as closing time loomed and some of the last customers started to leave the shop; it had been another busy day for the owners. Fred and George's establishment had positively been aquiver with students and their parents all day, as they filled every nook and cranny of the bright and zany shop like they did every year before the new start of term.

It was coming on to twenty to five and Verity had begun filing her nails to pass the time, when a large, stern looking man approached the shop entrance, opened it impatiently and started towards the till taking long determined strides, and dodging a few stragglers browsing a display of Skiving Snack boxes in the process. He was tall, wide and noticeably middle-aged with thinning brown hair and dark eyes. Donned in grey business robes, the man looked quite out of place in the shop as he finally stopped in front of the till and looked down his large nose at Verity.

"How can I help, sir?" she asked, wearily putting down her file and preparing herself for what looked to be an argument from the tall man. She wasn't to be disappointed.

"You can help me miss, by telling me what I am supposed to do with a currently fluorescing child," he began tightly. "My son recently purchased a 'Wacko's glowing gum' or something of yours and he's been glowing ever since yesterday."

Verity sighed and reached for a slender, magenta tome on a low shelf beneath the till and thumbed through until she came across a page, the number of which she seemed to have committed to memory. "Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes and all of its affiliates are not held responsible for any theft, damage or disappearance of a product once it has been purchased and left the building, nor is it held accountable for any injury, minor or major, that a product may cause once purchased including loss of body parts, mental damage or-"

"I don't care about all that _legal waffle _I demand that something be done about this!" the man bellowed, drawing the attention of everyone on the floor.

"…or any negative reactions to ingredients used, allergic or otherwise," she finished meekly, after he had finished shouting. "If you do not agree with these terms, sir, you will have to take it up with Mr Weasley an-"

"Your boss? Bring him out then, then I can get him to fix this mess he's caused," he grumbled.

Verity waved her wand over an enchanted horn upon the desk, and began speaking into it. "A Mr Weasley to the front desk please, that's a Mr Weasley to the front desk, thank you."

A few moments later, a door towards the back of the shop opened and Fred Weasley sidled through bringing with him a cloud of purple vapour in the process. He quickly closed it again and made his way through the store, brushing off a twinkling powder that had collected on his robes.

"What is it, Verit-"

"I thought you said you were bringing out the owner, not another worker," huffed the impatient man, studying Fred's ruffled appearance. "This is just the boy who sold me the stuff."

"Mr Weasley, this _gentleman's _son seems to have had a reaction to some recently purchased 'Wakefield's Off the Record Glow in the Dark Gum' and he isn't interested in the shop's terms and conditions," said Verity, ignoring him now and going back to her nails.

Fred looked up at the tall man who must have been around 6ft 6, and schooled his features into what he hoped was a pleasant expression. "Mr…err…?"

"Mr Dagworth, and if you would be so kind as to fetch your _employer_, young man, I don't have all evening. My son is glowing so brightly he kept himself and most of our neighbours awake last night, there's fluorescent fingerprints all over our home which cannot be removed and there's the matter of the moths that have been flocking to our house ever since; the clothes drying on the line, including most of my daughter's undergarments, have been practically ruined. I need this sorted."

Fred's eyebrows raised at this. But employer? Here we go again. "My brother and I are the owners of Wheezes, Mr Dagworth, and the creators of everything in the shop. Any queries are to be taken up with me or him, sir," said Fred, _accio'_ing a box of gum from a shelf and turning it over to look at the ingredients.

Mr Dagworth gaped at him. "How old are you?" he asked in his deep, heavy voice.

Fred glanced up. "Twenty," he said, not noticing the amused smile threatening to break out onto Verity's face and trying to ignore the low murmurs of "no wonder it's dodgy", "run by bloody kids" and "mother's milk still wet on his face…"

A red hue now making itself known on his ears, Fred asked, "Does your son have known allergies to any of the following: Chicle gum, flitterby moths, flobberworm mucus, clabbert postule, powdered fluorite?"

Mr Dagworth shook his head.

"Well, it seems that he might." He copied the list of ingredients onto a spare piece of parchment from under the till and extended it towards the man. "The only thing I can suggest is to show this list of ingredients to the healers at St Mungos and get them to perform an allergy test on your son."

Fred felt relieved when the man finally accepted the list and gave a firm nod. "Very well," said Dagworth as he turned away from the till and made towards the door, "but rest assured sonny, if those results come up blank, I'll be straight back here tomorrow morning to box you _and_ your brother's ears. Good day." He passed through the exit and Fred just caught the quiet murmurs of "not a clue what they're doing" and "rapscallions" before the door shut behind him.

Fred immediately pointed a finger at Verity, not needing to even look at her to know she was moments away from making a comment. "_Not_ a word, you."

She held her hands up in defeat. "Don't worry I wasn't going to say anything," she said in a high, scandalized voice, before seeing to her nails once more with a coy smile "…_sonny_."

Fred snapped his head around to glare at her just as George chose that moment to waltz in. "What was all that about? Keeping neighbours awake all night, fingerprints all over a house, daughter's underwear? I hope you haven't been a naughty boy again Freddie," George sneered wiggling his eyebrows provocatively.

"Ha ha, very funny but once again your hearing fails you, brother. That man's _son_, upon chewing a batch of _your_ glow in the dark gum, has gone and lit up like a Christmas tree attracting every beastie within a ten mile radius with a taste for drying laundry."

"Ah, bad reaction," George reasoned.

"Hopefully that's all it is," said Fred, "'cause if not, I hope you haven't grown too fond of that remaining ear of yours," he added under his breath, walking over to the till and looking at the time. "Merlin's pants, five o'clock already?"

George let out a yawn and nodded. "Well you know what they say, 'time flies when you're poisoning some bloke's son'."

"I'm not sure that's how it goes, but close enough," said Verity going around pulling down blinds and turning the 'Enter at your own risk' sign on the door to 'Even geniuses need sleep.'

"You can scarper if you like, Verity, we can take it from here," called George from the top floor of the shop as he went through a similar closing up routine. "That includes you lot down there!" he shouted at the small group of lagging teens, who huffed and left the shop.

She made a grab for her coat and bag and began to put them on. "Okay then. Same time tomorrow?" she asked.

"It's a date!" said Fred from his position behind the till, looking up and winking at her.

She shook her head and opened the front door. "Well goodnight then," she said as she left the shop before turning around and adding "…you _rapscallions." _ And she quickly shut it behind her feeling her boss's glare upon the back of her neck as she giggled and made her way through the chilly, cobbled streets.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

The large clock that hung inside the shop chimed eight o'clock as WWW, now packed up, locked and loaded in preparation for the next day, was bombarded by a healthy rainstorm. The downpour falling outside its large windows cast strange wiggling shapes upon the shelves as the droplets ran down the glass. The twins were lounging around the sitting room of their flat above the shop, with Fred busying himself with making two cups of hot, steaming tea, whilst George basked on the sofa in the warm glow of the fire currently blazing away; the _Evening Prophet_ open on the seat cushion to his right.

Their cosy little flat hadn't changed much over the course of the past three years, not becoming too damaged during the second wizarding war. It was a homey little place with an open kitchen and combined sitting room. The decent sized dining table filled the space behind a settée, which sat opposite the stone fireplace. A small bathroom and two bedrooms completed the place, all accessible by one wood-floored hallway which was also connected to a staircase which led into the workshop below at the rear of the store. A second direct entrance to the flat was located on the street below, which brought you directly up another staircase and into the kitchen via a door which Fred had just locked up for the night. He picked up the two mugs and carried them over to the sofa where George was waiting.

"Stock checked, profits counted, hot home cooked meal and now a nice cup of tea," smiled George warmly, accepting the cup being passed to him. "I knew I married you for a reason," he chuckled, taking a sip and throwing on his best charming smile.

Fred scoffed as he sat on the far end of the sofa. "Sorry to burst your bubble _dear_, but my services aren't gratis," he said shucking off his slippers and plonking his bare feet into George's lap. "Pay up."

George looked down at them for a second, and then back up at Fred with a 'Are you kidding me?' look about his face.

"You know, I might be inclined to forget about Tuesday's…_incident_ with the Amortentia residue…"

George cracked a small, pained smile and huffed, lowered his mug onto the coffee table, performed a quick freshening spell, took the nearest foot in both hands, and pressed his thumbs into the sensitive arch. "…You despicable boy," he commented, half in amusement, half in contempt.

"Why yes I am, thank you," Fred grinned smugly as he snuggled a bit further into the apex between the armrest and the backrest and closed his eyes with a sigh.

Chuckling, George just rolled his eyes and went back to his paper.

"Anything interesting?" said Fred with a slight gasp, George having pressed upon a particularly tender spot, before taking a sip of tea.

"Err, let's see..." mumbled George as he scanned over the pages of black and white text and small moving figures, trying to remember if he'd seen anything earlier worth divulging.

"Ah yes, 'Wizarding Wireless Network Walloped by Wayward Weasels'. The Wizarding Wireless Network had to sheepishly apologize to its listeners yesterday, when a group of wild jarveys somehow found their way into a booth and began attacking the DJs live on air. Some even took control of the mic, and using their famous ability to recreate the human voice, began sputtering obscenities during a playing of 'Necks to you' by the vampire singer Lorcan d'Eath. WWN say they have no idea how the animals got in but it won't be happening again. They also recommend that listeners should forget the incident ever happened and ignore any insults made to their mothers."

"HA! That'll teach them not to give us an advertising slot," smirked Fred.

George shot him a curious look, but went back to look for something else anyway. "Rhythmic Runes Set to Play Ellis Moor Quidditch Stadium on 1st of December."

"Pfft, Percy can sing better than those lot," muttered Fred, sipping more of his tea.

George had to tip his head in agreement and began reading another headline. "Quidditch Company 'Shooting Star' Accused of Using Poison Oak as Broom Handle Material."

"Boring."

"Ministry Orders Reform as Officials are Caught Forging Orders of Merlin."

"Even boring-er."

"Man From Cheshire Eats Four Pumpkin Pasties in Under a Minute?"

"Pretty sure I did that last week…"

George sighed and looked up from the paper beside him. "All in all, not a lot happening lately."

Fred groaned, mostly due to his impatience at this 'Stale-y Prophet' as he called it nowadays but also at the fact that George was now making small, firm circles in the pad at the base of his toes which was particularly aggreeable. "I swear these past few weeks have been the dullest in history; not a single decent thing going on around here. I just wish something would happen to break the bloody monotony."

"Don't say things like that," George warned, "you've probably jinxed us now."

"Oh yeah completely," Fred said sarcastically, "just you wait, any minute now the flat is probably going to spontaneously explode and we're both going to die horrendous, flaming red, deaths-"

WHOOOOSSSSHHHHHH!

The fire in the fireplace suddenly without any warning released a deafening roar, containing within it the audible phrase of "WEASLEYS!" whilst it blazed a tremendous wicked green.

Now it could have been a simple case of coincidence, it could've indeed been a jinx, or it could've been fate that saw the floo network erupt in magnificent fashion as Fred spoke these words, but whatever it was, it scared the twins so spectacularly that within moments of it happening, Fred had already let out a very feminine sounding shriek – or manly battle cry as he would later phrase it – and jumped so violently that the contents of his scalding tea shot in an arc out of his cup and landed directly onto George's lap, causing said twin to leap into the air with a blood curdling howl.

It was about ten minutes before George reluctantly left the bathroom to make his way back to the sitting room, whimpering during the transit, and it was here that he was immediately greeted by a very contrite Fred and an equally apologetic Oliver Wood.

"George! Oh god I'm so so-"

"Are you ok? I-"

"-I didn't realise I was-"

George held up his hand with a stony expression, and the chatter stopped. He then raised the other and swatted the two youths across the head as hard as he dared.

"OW!"

"AHH!"

"Kindly do not do that again. _Either_ of you," he said tightly.

"…How are they?" Fred asked sheepishly, wincing whilst he rubbed his skull.

George looked him dead in the eye. "…Sore."

"Well, if for whatever reason they don't recover, you're always welcome to one of mine," he continued, biting his lip to stop the hoard of laughter about to burst forth .

"Thanks, but I think I'll pass, after all I don't know where they've bee- actually I _do_ know where they've been which is probably worse," George reasoned.

"Don't you mean with _whom_ they've been_,_" Oliver sniggered. He was trying his hardest to restrain his giggles but it really wasn't working. "At least it would match," he snorted, finally losing his composure and laughing shamelessly.

Fred had also abandoned empathy and was now bent double, holding onto his knees for dear life as his whole body shook.

George looked at the twosome bitterly through half lidded eyes. It was going to be a long evening.

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><p>When Fred and Oliver had finally calmed down and seated themselves on the settée – courtesy of a series of glares from George – the Scotsman finally began to divulge to the two the reason he was there in the first place.<p>

"McGonagall basically has this idea that the wizarding world needs a bit of a boost after You-Know-Who, needs a bit of cheering up – something to look forward to etc. And so she wants to have a big old Quidditch tournament at Hogwarts, just like old times between the four houses."

George instantly perked up. "Excellent! It's been too long since we've been to one of those."

"Yes! It's just what needs to happen around he- wait, hold on a second, if it's between the four houses, then why come here?" Fred questioned. "We're not at school anymore."

"I was just getting to that," said Oliver coyly. He rested his forearms on his knees and leant closer. "McGonagall doesn't want a tournament between the students; they're for the most part quite inexperienced. She wants to have one with all the old teams – to get everyone back together again and show the kiddies how it's done."

"You mean to say..." Fred began, looking up at Wood.

Oliver grinned, the famous Quidditch-inspired twinkle rising in his eyes as he stood. "I hope you've kept those arms of yours in shape, you're going to need them to bat Flint's head off his shoulders."

"You want us to beat again?" Fred was also now standing, resisting the urge to start bouncing at the thought of getting back on the pitch.

"I just know we're going to be unstoppable this time round, all the girls are coming back and Harry agreed before I'd finished asking him," Wood went on now pacing in excitement around the twins, "I see you two have grown a bit more - filled out since you left Hogwarts. Yes, very good."

George, the more level-headed out of him and Fred, immediately saw a problem. "When is this tournament, Oliver?"

"The first week of term," Wood managed to state inbetween grilling Fred about his fitness and giving his beating arm the once over.

"That means we'll be training over the next couple of weeks?" he pondered aloud as Wood came over to him.

"Exactly, a head start. The perfect defence is a good offence…_You're_ a bit on the slimmer side, George, but not to fear, nothing an impermeable training regime made by yours truly won't fix!" Oliver boasted.

"But, don't you see Oli? Just before the start of term is Wheezes' busiest time. We couldn't possibly leave our worker girl by herself or stop working, it would cripple us," George reasoned looking over at Fred in appeal.

Fred wilted slightly. "Shit."

"It usually takes the three of us at full pelt to keep up around here late August, and the rent has to come out, the ingredients won't be getting used and go bad- Oh and the bloody shareholders will have our hides!" George groaned.

Fred scrunched up his face in thought, he would be damned if he was going to let this opportunity slip by…there had to be something they could put in place. He glanced at the _Evening Prophet_ open on the settée for inspiration where a headline immediately caught his eye: 'Sign-ups now available for the Great Wizarding Run – get your pins out this Autumn.'

"Sponsors!" Fred suddenly exclaimed.

George beamed. "Ofcourse! We'd only need to open half days, and could ask for customers to sponsor us, that way we'd still be making enough to keep ourselves afloat and have time for training."

"And just what makes you think everyone who walks into your shop will want to sponsor you?" Oliver asked.

George gave him an 'Are you kidding me?' look and pointed to Fred whose face was now the epitome of puppy dog innocence; the downward tilt of his head made the freckles on the bridge of his nose and the tops of his cheeks stand out much more than usual, framing the largest hazel eyes Oliver had ever seen above a cute little pouty lip.

"…Touché."

"I call it 'The Granny Killer'," said George proudly.

"Well, I can't think of anything else to say other than practise starts 9am sharp on Monday at Hogwarts," said Wood smiling, before his expression suddenly became inquisitive. "You two still riding Cleansweep Fives?"

The twins looked sheepishly at each other.

"Merlin's balls."

"Well, it's not that we have much time for riding these days with the shop and everything-" began Fred.

"-and it's not that we _haven't_ been looking for something a bit more current-" continued George.

"-it's just-"

Oliver closed his eyes and exhaled loudly as the torrent of excuses poured into the room.

By the time the Captain made his way over to the hearth later that evening, he had learned that not only had the twins _not_ had any decent amount of time in the air since they'd left school, but their brooms had actually succumbed to an impromptu attack the week before by an anomalous assailant. The Cleansweeps, once sleek and aged, had been discovered one morning in piles of chewed wood on the workshop floor where they had once lived. George, at the time, had immediately pointed the finger at Fred's pet albino pygmy-puff 'Lucius' which Fred had fervently denied;

"Lucius would never do such a bad thing, there's no proof, he doesn't even like to chew things!" he had spluttered as said pygmy-puff on his shoulder nibbled contently on his earlobe.

The forthcoming re-row had been quickly averted when Wood had announced that they were to go to Quality Quidditch Supplies that weekend for replacements, no ifs or buts.

"Well I'd better be off, lots to plan," began the Captain, as he stood in front of the fireplace. "Glad to have my human bludgers back," Oliver stated warmly, looking over his shoulder at the pair. "…Even if they like to snuggle on the sofa like an old married couple," he added with a smirk before bolting into the fireplace and flooing away, just before he was struck by two perfectly aimed, bludger-quick, tea-stained mugs which shattered in spectacular fashion against the waning green flames.


End file.
